The Paris Literary and Strawberry Mille-Feuille Society
by onlyacoffee
Summary: Their society - a society of two, Feuilly likes the sound of that - has nothing of a society most people would expect – they talk, but don't debate grand ideals and policies. Their meetings, although never quite impromptu, are irregular at best. Still, they share. They share each other's time; they share tips, thoughts, friendship, and a mille-feuille with strawberry filling.


_Combeferre and Feuilly sharing books. That's it, that's the fic. Written half in response to all the amazing - but heartbreaking! - Feuilly fic I've been reading lately. Short of being able to hug it better, I can at least write something happy and pleasant for him? And Combeferre, too. The boy needs a break, for sure._

* * *

They meet once every month, when their schedule allows it. Not in the backroom of the Musain, with its large, wooden tables and multitudes of chairs, but in a quiet coffee shop in a neighbourhood closer to Feuilly's apartment, between a pizza restaurant and a tiny used books store. They sit at a table near the front window, in two mismatched armchairs. From their spot they can watch the people on the street. The coffee shop isn't generally a busy place on Sunday mornings, so they don't have to raise their voices to be heard, for once.

Combeferre's face is pale, but his clothes are clean and bright and his hair smells of mint and cucumber. He has, for once, left his laptop at home, and his glasses are brand new, the lenses just a tiny bit thicker than before – from reading so much, Joly teases him. He orders an _allongé_, no milk, but will probably stir some sugar in. Feuilly, who worked later than usual last night and has dark circles under his eyes, smiles softly at the waitress and says, "Get me what you'd get for yourself". He relaxes against his seat, the sun from the window making the hundreds of freckles on his nose stand out. The waitress, a pretty round college student with white teeth and dimples, comes back a few minutes later with coffee, a pastry and two forks.

And so begins the sixth official meeting of the Paris Literary and Strawberry Mille-Feuille Society.

A society of two, Feuilly likes the sound of that. It has nothing of a society most people would expect – they talk, but don't debate grand ideals and policies. Their meetings, although never quite impromptu, are irregular at best. Still, and this is what Feuilly believes is important, they share. They share each other's time; they share tips, thoughts, friendship, and a mille-feuille with strawberry filling.

Of course, they see each other often enough in different contexts – in the corridors of the university, when the sun is setting and Combeferre comes out of an anatomy class and Feuilly comes in for a language class. They talk at Bahorel's flat, with a pizza and a beer, or at Enjolras', working on the ABC website. They often meet in the Musain, too, when the whole group gets together to celebrate their youth and enthusiasm by dreaming of a better world they are certain they are helping bring about.

If in the Musain they share their vision of the future, in this small coffee shop on Sunday mornings like this one, they share their present.

"I think you'd like this one," Feuilly says, setting down a dog-eared paperback. On the cover there is a brick wall, a blue door, and a bicycle. "The author's Canadian, grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Quebec. The dialogue's pretty great, I think."

Feuilly doesn't have the words of a literary critic – he doesn't need them. He genuinely likes books, breathes them, and doesn't feel the need to justify his interests. He'll read anything, novels by authors Combeferre would have never thought about picking up otherwise.

"_La petite et le vieux_," Combeferre smiles as he reads the title of the novel. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Feuilly laughs.

"Not really, but I do think you could use something lighter than the volumes you've been carrying around lately," he raises his eybrows, mouth curved in a smile, "and I think you'd like this, if only for the cultural references. The author's barely older than we are, it's interesting to see the differences between her childhood and, well. What we might know here, in this country."

"Fair enough," Combeferre readjusts the glasses on his nose (he'll have to have them adjusted again or he'll end up with a tic) and skims over the first page. "And you're right, of course. Thank you." The novel is short, he'll certainly have time to read it in between study sessions.

He takes a sip of his coffee, and stirs in more sugar. He opens his messenger bag.

"Speaking of Quebec," he says, taking out a relatively thin, square book with a bright red cover. "I borrowed this one from Enjolras. It's about the student protests in Montreal last year. I think you'll find this very interesting."

Feuilly carefully runs his fingers over the glossy pages.

"I didn't think they would make such a fine-looking book about it. And so soon, too."

Combeferre shrugs. "I'm surprised, too. But this is a good thing, I believe."

Feuilly nods. "Thank you. Tell Enjolras I said thanks, too. I'll be very careful with this."

Combeferre knows he will. Feuilly's books, the few he owns – he borrows most of what he reads at the library – have spines broken from being read over and over again, covers marked from being carried in his bag with his art supplies, notes written in pencil in the margins. Some of them are second-hand, but they are so obviously his, cherished in an unpolished way, but Combeferre knows his friend's respect for books extends to the ones he borrows. He doesn't worry.

He takes a bite of the mille-feuille. Feuilly hasn't brought any other books, but he scribbles a few names and titles on a napkin and talks of the right to free emancipatory education, the mid-morning sun shining in his hazel eyes, his tiredness pushed so far that it barely tickles the tip of his toes. Combeferre nods, add a few comments of his own. He cuts a clean line in the middle of the pastry that Feuilly, now arguing passionately against populism, hasn't touched yet.

It is nearly 12 by the time their mugs are empty and the plate clean of crème pâtissière and strawberry jam and they slowly get up and grab their bags. Feuilly wraps the red book about the Montreal student protests in the plastic bag and holds it close to his chest, while Combeferre carefully folds the napkin with Feuilly's suggestions and puts it inside the copy of _La petite et le vieux_. Feuilly grabs another coffee to go – he works the evening shift again today - and they leave generous tip for the waitress, who waves them goodbye with a bright smile.

They linger for half an hour in the used bookstore next door, where Feuilly buys an old graphic novel with a title that makes Combeferre raise an eyebrow. "For Bahorel," Feuilly explains, cheeks a dusty pink, although Combeferre knows he'll probably read it as well.

They walk in companionable silence to Combeferre's bus stop, where they part with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. And so ends the sixth official meeting of the Paris Literary and Strawberry Mille-Feuille Society.

* * *

_I'm sorry for the gratuitous Quebec references - but I don't know enough about what is popular in French literature lately. I could have researched, but... Ah, no excuse, I really am sorry. Anyway, the books mentioned are "La petite et le vieux", by Marie-Renée Lavoie, and "Le printemps québécois: Une anthologie" by Maude Bonenfant, Anthony Glinoer, and Martine-Emmanuelle Lapointe. And the title, of course, is a reference to "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary-Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrow. Again, feedback is very much appreciated, but most importantly, thank you for reading! :)_


End file.
